He stands at the border of my thresh-
old. I invite him to enter.
He crosses over, kisses
me, leaves; returns the next
day, conversed, left once
again. I sit
in solace.
My door
closed.
by Gregg Rowe
He stands at the border of my thresh- old. I invite him to enter. He crosses over, kisses me, leaves; returns the next day, conversed, left once again. I sit in solace. My door closed. Author notes
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